The Couch
by swishandflickwit
Summary: Post 4x01. Pre Emma getting trapped in ice with Elsa. Tomorrow will surely be another hectic day and the day after that and the day after that… but still, they can have these moments where they can just be and after being alone for so long she likes the option of not necessarily having to be on her own and it's a beautiful thing, to be able to choose.


She's _exhausted_.

It turns out, tracking down a snow monster creator is very difficult _despite_ the random snow wall that has engulfed the town and the conspicuous trails of ice – all leading to dead ends. Apparently, who or even _what _they're dealing with doesn't want to be found _as always_.

(Seriously, she should be used to this)

(But she's _not_)

David is out in the cruiser doing patrols (though they haven't been practicing this for quite some time, they both agreed it was a necessity in light of a new… foe in Storybrooke) while Mary Margaret is busy with… Neal (_Jesus_ she's still going to take some time getting used to that) – and struggling, if the agitated baby _and _feminine sounds coming from the baby monitor perched on the kitchen island are any indications.

And so she is stuck with dish duty.

Hoo-fucking-ray.

Though, if she thinks about it, she is saddled with the simplest task of the three.

But she doesn't think about it. Instead, she thinks that if it were any other day, Emma would have happily jumped at the chance to do rounds in order to get out of the (too) crowded apartment and have some time to herself, except her bones are still weary from the time travelling she's done and Granny's bed felt just a little too big last night and her room just a little too empty now that she has to share Henry again and it's only been a little over ten hours since the last crisis and she is just _so tired _she could pass out in the sud-filled sink and…

Drown.

_Yeah, maybe not the sink_, she contemplates as she continues scrubbing the last of the dishes. _The couch though… _

She loads a bowl into the dryer.

_How can my parents have a dish dryer but not a dishwasher?_ She continues to wonder. _That makes _no sense. She scrubs vigorously at a spot of pasta sauce on a plate and grumbles when her muscles ache in protest. _Definitely getting them a dishwasher for Christmas. _

She continues in this manner until the clearing of a throat interrupts her from her thoughts and she is whirling around, clutching at anything from within the sink and poised to attack.

"Oh dear," he says, "it seems you've found my weakness."

He says this in a serious tone, but the quirk of his eyebrow and the tug of his lip tell her he is amused and she follows the trail of his eyes till it lands on her hand where she is clutching at–

"A spoon's blunt edge would surely mean catastrophe for me. I'm certainly no match with my hook."

At the word 'hook' she starts and drops the spoon to grasp her chest.

"Killian, you scared me, _God_."

"Apologies lass," (though he doesn't look apologetic at all, more _smug _really, the idiot, she could have totally protected herself with the spoon. _Totally_.) "I just came to tell you that I've finished wiping the table."

She nods in thanks when he hands her the rag and shakes her head when he asks if there is any more he can do to assist her (ever the gentleman, he is) so he paces to the counter, leans against it and watches the line of her back and the curve of her shoulders as she concentrates on her task, simply enjoying being in her presence.

She can feel the heat of his gaze through her clothes so she finishes quickly, unplugs the drain and wipes her hands on a dishtowel after she places the last of the plates on the dish dryer then turns towards him, eager for them to continue this quiet that has settled between them.

But, as she squares her shoulders, her back protests and she groans. He is by her side immediately, eyes clouded with worry.

(And she should be used to this, to someone actually worrying for her)

(But she's not)

(Doesn't think she ever will be, really)

"What is it? What's wrong?"

"It's nothing," she winces as she gently presses at the small of her back, "just that washing dishes can be a pain in the ass you know? Or should I say, the back."

She waves him off as she makes her way to the living room but light fingers at the base of her spine stop her in her tracks.

"Allow me, love."

He motions for her to lie on her stomach on the couch and it doesn't register for her what he's about to do (just that she is absolutely beat and she's finally banking on her earlier vow to pass out on the couch) until he's actually doing it and–

"Killian," she scrambles to her elbows, looking over her shoulder to him, "you don't have to do this–"

He stops her with a finger to her lips. "Allow me," he repeats softly, his eyes laced with sincerity and a quiet resolve (_I should be used to this_, she thinks again, _how am I not used to this?_), a resolve to please her, she realizes, so she gulps and she nods and she lays back down and lets a different kind of magic take over her.

She moans when he hits a particularly tender spot and it goes like this for a minute or for forever and he may have one hand but _God _he wasn't lying when he said that _everything else is still intact _because _damn _but it's the best massage she's ever had.

(It's the only massage she's ever had but, semantics)

Belatedly, she realizes she's probably making _really _inappropriate sounds when his hand dips lower, towards the hem of her shirt where just a hint of skin peeks out and his touch becomes less heavy and more of a caress and is it her or is her breathing getting shallow and when did it get so _hot _inside?

"I think," she clears her throat a bit when her voice comes out breathy at first, "I think, I'm good."

Then his hand is in her hair, tucking errant curls behind her ears to see her face better, before saying, "You sure?"

His voice is low and husky, his accent thicker and it does things to her body like makes her toes curl and heat pool in her belly and her fingers reach to touch the skin exposed by his shirt just as his tightens in her hair.

"There is one other thing," she whispers, eyes half-lidded.

"Anything." He breathes as she smiles.

"Kiss me."

He exhales shakily ("As you wish") and shuts his eyes, lips ready to engage hers and they are a hairsbreadth away from each other when Emma lets out a jaw-cracking yawn followed by the soft cries from the baby monitor and just like that, the heady tension in the air disappears in a wisp and the spell is broken.

"I'm sorry," (she's not, actually. Well she's sorry for yawning but she still wants that kiss but the truth of the matter is, there is a baby upstairs and this is still her parents' loft) "I'm just, really drained."

She grumbles internally because seriously? Could her timing (and her brother's) be any worse?

But he merely chuckles, tracing the apple of her cheek when she pouts.

"Don't apologize, love. It has been quite the day." He smiles at her. "I should let you get your rest."

He thumbs at the dimple in her chin and motions to get up and make for the door. But she grabs at his sleeve before he has a chance to do any of that.

"You could… you could stay?"

His eyes widen. "Pardon?"

She wants to smack herself because _what am I doing_ and what happened to taking things slow and _be patient_ because this isn't patience.

But it is a peaceful thing.

"You said something about quiet moments, yesterday."

"Aye," he nods slowly, though it is obvious he is still unsure as to where she is going.

But Emma wants to make this… _thing _between them work and that means letting him in, letting him be a part of all the moments that make up her life when she would otherwise be alone.

"Well… we have one now. Maybe you could stay here with me for a bit… just until I fall asleep?"

The confusion melts from his face and gives way to contentment and… something else she can't name but she doesn't mind the not knowing for now.

Tomorrow will surely be another hectic day and the day after that and the day after that… but still, they can have these moments where they can just _be _and after being alone for so long she likes the option of not necessarily having to be on her own and it's a beautiful thing, to be able to choose.

So she chooses to have this quiet moment with him and she believes that he understands when he asks for no further explanation. He simply nods and takes off his coat and hook as she scoots as close to the back of the couch as she can before patting the space she made for him.

"Hop aboard, pirate."

He laughs a little, but follows. Automatically, his arms wind around her and her legs tangle with his and it shouldn't be this easy or familiar but _God it is_ and she's waiting for the panic to arrive but is pleasantly surprised to find _none _and it is a wonderful feeling, something she can definitely get drunk on.

"Rest well, my darling. I'll keep the monsters away."

Her heart is doing a rumba and a salsa and a tango all at once when he says that because no one ever offered to do that for her, too many uncaring foster families and too many times having to move making it all too difficult to even ask much less be offered by someone to check for monsters underneath her bed. But here she is, a grown-ass woman, heart fluttering at the protection he offers.

"Yeah well, I still could have beaten you with a spoon you know," she says, a last ditch effort to strengthen her walls but it falls flat when she sighs in delight, his fingers making small patterns up and down her back in light, pleasurable strokes.

He chuckles. "Of that I've no doubt. But Emma," and here he whispers. "Let me take care of you."

She thinks once again of seizing good and quiet moments in between her previously lonely and tumultuous life, and under the cover of the night and nestled in between the arms of this pirate and this man of honor bundles in one dashing rapscallion, she gives in. She lets him lull her to sleep with his touch and his voice and his scent and his promises of keeping the monsters at bay and taking care of her.

(She thinks, what with her family and now him, that she should get used to this, of someone taking care of her)

(She isn't)

(But, she thinks, I could be)

She presses a kiss against the hollow of his throat and falls asleep to the smell of rum and sea and blue eyes and the intoxicating feeling of _quiet _and _good_.

* * *

David arrives to dim lights and a fussy baby monitor.

He goes to switch it off but on his way to the bedroom, he is stopped in his path by the sight of his daughter draped across a pirate.

He is shocked and for a moment, he doesn't know what to do.

But Emma moves and in doing so, reveals her face (which was previously buried under a mountain of her curls and Hook's chest). It is free of frown lines and is very relaxed instead, the corners of her mouth tugging up in a smile.

He never imagined his daughter, his _princess, _ever warming up to a pirate but he's come to realize that, though Hook had a dark past, underneath the cocky exterior lies a good man with a strong heart. No one will ever be good enough for his daughter, he thinks, but Hook is a man with honor.

He supposes she could do a lot worse.

So he chuckles and shakes his head at the two, grabbing the blanket from the loveseat across them and draping it over their figures.

He'll give Hook this time tonight but tomorrow…

Tomorrow David can have his fun.

* * *

David makes good on his promise to himself the following morning when both are roused from their slumber by his banging and clattering about in the kitchen to make breakfast while Mary Margaret sleeps in.

The two stumble towards the island, faces red and eyes downcast like a couple of teenagers and he crosses his arms in a defensive stance while his face is pulled in a frown.

He's laughing on the inside though because Killian looks like he might bolt and throw up at the same time and _man_ he is enjoying this. He plans on dragging out this overprotective father charade for as long as he possibly can, simply cause seeing the normally cool and undeterred pirate captain all flustered, nervous and overwrought is positively hilarious but he sees the way the two look at each other, the small smiles they exchange and the way they lean towards each other and it reminds him…

It reminds him of Snow and himself.

So maybe today he'll have his fun. But he knows enough about Killian Jones to confidently say that he will be good for Emma and Emma for him.

And with time he can see…

Their love will be true.

* * *

They share small smiles of amusement but never shame. Her father is but another obstacle they have to face, he thinks, and holds on to moments like yesterday and _Emma_ to pull him through.

So he directs his eyes to her.

_Together? _They seem to say and she nods, tightening her fingers around his.

Together.

* * *

**AN: Idek what I'm writing. I'm tired and fluffly. **


End file.
